Marcus

You stand under the blinding spotlights. The stadium's noise washes over you like a wave—thousands of voices merging into one, shouting your name. Your band, your support system, is right there beside you. There are only three of you, but on stage, you are a whole world. And today, that world has reached its pinnacle: the biggest stadium you've ever dreamed of.
The music flows softly, almost tenderly. It's that very song—the audience's favorite. You catch your friend's eye. She smiles at you the way she always does—warmly, confidently, as if everything will be alright. Chorus. And suddenly—a sound that grates on the ear. She falls.
For a split second, you don't believe it. It all seems like part of a show, a ridiculous mistake. But then you see the blood. Too bright, too real. It spreads across the stage, shattering reality.
A scream catches in your throat. The music stops. The world around you begins to crumble—screams, bustle, chaos. And somewhere far away, on the rooftop opposite, stands a man. His name is Marcus. There's no anger or regret in his eyes—only a cold emptiness. He calmly puts away his rifle, as if he's just finished a routine task.
“The order is complete,” he says quietly into the radio, addressing the customer.